On Parole in Lisbon

The other two were parting ways. Davenport brought his arm down smartly, making his coat sleeve crackle from the movement. Staying here any longer was to invite further disaster. Tain't goin' 'xactly. He'd said those very words to Maturin only a few days ago, though in a far more lighthearted manner than their meaning took on now.

He turned away, disgusted at himself for thinking he could fool anyone who knew him as someone completely different. There could be no explaining fully either. The half-Spanish scout plucked at his red coat as he walked away, suddenly, irrationally, hating it and everything it had just ruined. How was he supposed to report this and not doom himself to spending the rest of the war confined to his regiment?

Stephen mastered his surprise as des Sablières walked away, a riot of questions and emotions in his head, feeling almost overwhelmed. He was so constantly near to the edge these days, as he had not been since Madrid. He had felt that even the tiniest portion of his burden of suspicion had been lifted, and now it was replaced by something possibly more sinister.

"What," he said coldly to Calderón's back, "was the meaning of that?"

Maturin was not finished with him - but then, why had he expected the man would be? His good mood was gone now and with it his willingness to entertain sustained conversation. If only the doctor had not asked him to doff his shako. If only he had not bothered to hail the two men in the first place. If only.

"D'ye figger it matters now?" Davenport asked, forcing himself to stop and turn back. "Sure it weren't s'posed to turn out thisa'way. But tain't goin' xactly," he added bitterly.

"Of course it matters," Stephen hissed in Castilian. He closed the gap between them. "Was it your men who did it?"

What? Davenport looked at him, not comprehending. He understood the words, of course, but not the meaning behind them.

"What are you talking about?" The Spanish was heavy on his tongue, for some reason.

"Four of des Sablières' men were slaughtered by Portuguese irregulars. I want to know if they were your men, and what you knew of it."

Four of des Sablières' men were slaughtered by Portuguese irregulars. He was not surprised to learn that the escaped Frenchmen had been caught up with, but that didn't mean he was unmoved by the revelation. It wasn't a stretch to imagine that the irregulars would not be kind. Davenport could be cold in his own way when required but he didn't stray into brutality, even for the sake of vengeance. And yet Maturin was assuming that he had been part of it somehow.

"Christ," he murmured and looked away, feeling slightly dazed. It was the first news he'd heard of the French hussars since reaching Lisbon. The poor bastards. "How was I s'posed to know of it, bein' here? I can't always be out an' 'round like this is the West Country."

"I know nothing of the army's intelligence services," Stephen said, not allowing his relief to show in his voice. "You might have received word - we knew them as your men, after all." He stepped forward. "And I need to know if you are a threat to des Sablières. That is why it matters."

"My men." He couldn't stop a snort of disgust as he shook his head. "The irregulars don't take orders from me, not truly. Unless it suits 'em. They reckon I'm just a Dago - " as do you, Davenport thought. He sighed. There was no point in trying to explain.

"No," he said after a pause, which he used to snuff out his pipe and tuck the clay trinket away into his coat. It struck him that he had stopped answering Maturin in Spanish, though he couldn't immediately recall when. Did it matter? "No I ain't a threat to him, or any other bloody French officer in the city. He's not a threat himself." Except to me. He found that he wasn't concerned about that, however. Davenport shrugged and couldn't resist adding, "Better go'n tell him ain't nothin' t'fear from this red-coat, eh?"

"I will, tomorrow," said Stephen harshly. "I do not understand why you do these things, José. You are cautious to the point of paranoia in one moment, and impetuous to the point of recklessness the next."

That sounded rather like something his father would have said. Davenport hid his sudden amusement and wondered why he was bothering to continue the conversation. Maturin wouldn't understand, even if he wanted to explain. He'd said far more than was wise already but his cover and security was in danger anyway.

His brief amusement was quickly gone, leaving him feeling weary and close to defeat. "Consider it self-punishment," he said coldly. "I know what my men have done, now, don't I? Never mind I can't hope to be in two places at once as two different lads - no more than you can."

"I was asking, Calderón, not blaming; it was a question that needed to be asked. 'Self-punishment' - do not talk such nonsense. You actions affect more than just your own life." Calderón's attitude was beginning to infuriate him.

"Davenport." The correction was more than just preference. He was still in his red coat, after all. "And of course I know they do. I haven't stayed so long here for nothing. Appearances... are not what they seem."

It was useless to try, but somehow it was important that Maturin should know why. Or perhaps not so much why as what. Davenport sighed. He couldn't even understand his own motives just then. "I can't linger here much longer. There's a curfew to abide by. But..." he lifted an arm to gesture half-heartedly in the general direction of the Headquarters building. It was an unspoken invitation to follow, if Maturin wished. If not... Davenport wouldn't blame the man.

"Well, Davenport, would you mind giving any explanation at all?" said Stephen, hesitantly momentarily before walking in the direction Calderón had indicated.

"My mother's name was Calderón," he said after a moment, almost to himself. It wasn't much of a start and he hesitated. Maturin was annoyed and justifiably so. But he was following. He walked in silence for a minute, wondering why he was about to lay everything bare. Perhaps it was well past time to be honest. After the near-disaster that was the mission to Óbidos, especially.

"I'm only half-Spanish, you know." Not much better but it would have to do. "And José Ramon is my brother's name. Or part of it. Mamá wanted us named after her own family and she got her way. It helped when I first came here." He shrugged. Just say it. "I'm a Cornishman, sir. By birth."

Stephen frowned - he knew the man was half-English, and had spent some time there, but had always thought he considered himself a Spaniard. "So you are genuinely a soldier in the British army?"

He nodded. "Took the shilling when I was sixteen. 'Fore that I was a bit of a scout on the coast for the Customs officers." Davenport tugged absently at his cuffs and added "My regiment's not here, of course, but I wouldn't be with them anyway. Safer without 'em around."

"Are you working for Hogan? No... someone more established. But it is the army, yes?"

"The army." Until death or crippling. "Though I do report to Hogan. Or I'm supposed to," he amended with a slight grin.

Stephen snorted, all but the last vestiges of hostility leaving his face. "Hogan is a novice - he has been in this game all of a few months." He grew serious again. "Nonetheless, I would ask you to stay away from des Sablières. He is anxious, and I fear that he might have reason to be."

Davenport thought of the news about the French hussars and wondered why the captain wouldn't be anxious. "I have no business with him. Besides, I'm not long for this city anyway. Once my arm is better..."

The error was made before he realised the danger. Ah damn. Maturin was tenacity defined when there were wounded or sick men around, especially those in need of treatment. Davenport had been careful to conceal his own injury from the man so to avoid the trial of being fussed over endlessly.

"There is scouting to be done," he finished, feeling stupid.

"Your arm was wounded, and you did not tell me?" The full, intense ferocity of Stephen's glare returned. "Which arm? How? When? Show me."

This was why he hadn't told the man. There would be no putting him off now, not until he had seen and poked the wound.

"It's nothing serious. I cleaned and dressed it before riding to the Greys - and have done the same every day since." Davenport patted his right arm, glad at least that his coat concealed the slight bulge of bandages.

"Since then?! Well, I am glad that your exceptional medical mind came to that conclusion. José, you mome, you wicked idiot - roll up your sleeve this instant."

"We're in the middle of the street!" Davenport stared at the other man, amused. He was not about to peel off his coat and then his shirt in public but the thought of it struck him as funny. "There's - ha - there's no ball in either, it passed clean through."